Mercy came knocking once, a pale wanderer draped in dawn, with weary eyes and gentle hands, carrying no sword, only the burden of understanding. But the wicked knew not her face. Their hearts were citadels of stone, where compassion died unnamed and every wound became a weapon. They barred the gates. For mercy is a stranger in the hearts of the wicked. She walks their halls unseen, a ghost among shadows, whispering of forgiveness to ears that worship vengeance. They drink from poisoned wells and call bitterness wisdom. They sharpen grief into blades and wear cruelty like a crown. Where mercy offers a bridge, they build a wall. Where mercy kneels, they strike. And so she leaves quietly, taking her light with her, while darkness settles deeper into chambers already cold. The wicked do not fear mercy, they fear what mercy reveals: that beneath their iron masks, beneath their kingdoms of pride, beneath the ruins they call strength, there lives a trembling truth they dare not face. For merc...
They wear sunlight like tailored clothes,
walk into rooms where doors already open,
names polished smooth by legacy and luck.
People point and whisper,
“They have everything.”
But no one hears
the silence that follows them home.
No one sees the way
a chandelier can light a mansion
and still leave corners dark.
Even the privileged
have nights that taste like loneliness.
Tears that fall quietly
onto expensive pillows,
grief hidden behind practiced smiles
and family portraits framed in gold.
Money can soften storms,
but it cannot teach the heart
how to survive thunder.
Some inherit comfort
but not affection.
Some inherit status
but not peace.
Some grow up surrounded by abundance
yet starve for understanding.
And pain,
pain is strange that way.
It does not ask for bank statements
before entering a soul.
So the wealthy son
still mourns his father’s absence.
The admired woman
still questions her worth in mirrors.
The successful man
still sits awake at 2 a.m.
wondering why achievement
feels so empty.
We envy windows
without knowing
what cries behind the curtains.
Because sorrow wears every colour.
It lives in crowded cities
and gated homes alike.
And even those standing highest
sometimes carry
the heaviest invisible rain.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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